


Provocateur

by linguamortua



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Car Sex, Lingerie, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-19 15:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18137801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: Frank discovers Billy’s secret, and drives himself crazy trying to figure out how to bring it up. (A story in which Frank Castle is very beefy and stupid.)





	Provocateur

Frank knew what he was doing was wrong.

Curious, he thought, that he still had the capacity to identify that, after everything. The lines had become so blurred. They’d been blurred for years. In some ways, the small things nagged at his conscience more than the big things. He paused with hovering hands and considered: how do I feel? A question Curtis had recommended that he ask himself regularly. In stillness, he found the answer. _I feel ashamed. I feel excited._

Out in the ruins of America’s industry, overlooking grey water, Billy had told him he could get whatever Frank needed. How quickly Billy had forgiven Frank’s lies of omission. Hey man, I’m still alive. Sorry. Hey, I lied to you. Sorry about that, too. What Frank had needed, to his surprise if not Billy’s, was not a passport to a country that wouldn’t extradite him. Or large sums of money, or a ready supply of private military contractors to work with him.

No, what Frank had needed was the press of warm flesh against his. The bone-shaking, heart-pounding intimacy that came with sex rather than death attached. A violence disconnected from killing anyone. Billy was only too happy to provide that. And this was how Frank was repaying him. Frank swallowed hard. But he had done so much worse, and Billy didn’t care.

The drawer, half-open, had had the feeling of Pandora’s Box. It had hardly seemed like an intrusion to go over and cast a casual eye in there. He was already in Billy’s house; what harm could it do? Frank let it slide all the way out until it clicked. Inside, in tidy rows—surely not, Frank thought, except the incontrovertible proof was there in front of him. Very gently, so as not to disturb the arrangement, Frank pressed his finger against a black lace waistband so that he could see the label. Unless Billy was throwing down on the weekend with a whole football team of women who wore the same size clothes as him, these were his.

Conclusion: Billy Russo wore women’s underwear.

 _Holy shit_ , Frank mouthed to himself. He had been unprepared for both this revelation and for the way it made him feel. Guilty, certainly, but also warm. The back of his neck was getting hot; he touched it gently, soothingly. Some sort of folding system was at work. Everything was neatly curled into rolls and arranged in rows. It made Frank think of French pastries in a box, or a sushi arrangement too beautiful to eat. The window of an expensive boutique. A bewildering but beguiling dresser of makeup and other women’s mysteries. Things that Frank was usually excluded from, or too shy to attempt to experience.

Billy’s strange, industrial apartment had been another mystery. Frank had expected something in Manhattan, high up and surrounded by glass and light and sky. In his idle daydreams, he’d pictured designer furniture and hardwood floors. But Billy had purchased an entire abandoned factory, rigging all the entrances with cameras and electronic locks, and retreating to a network of old offices at the top of the complex. Barricaded in behind an iron gate, Frank almost felt safe here. It was the kind of set-up he might have put together for himself, if money had been no barrier.

The antique wooden floors had been aggressively scoured and buffed into smoothness, and there was heat and water and air conditioning in the living quarters. The thread count on Billy’s sheets was typically astronomical, and he had pieces of heavy, sculptural art on the walls. Frank couldn’t hope to divine any meaning from them, so he assumed they were important. That slippage in understanding, the layers and folds of meaning; that was Billy all over. Hiding the most absurd luxury in a building like this. Secreting rows of lace underwear in a dresser, perfectly arranged for his own eyes only.

The passage of time impinged on Frank’s thoughts, and he realised; Billy would be back any moment. He was out on a perimeter check. Frank always did the same in the evenings, no matter where he landed. He closed the drawer as quickly and quietly as he could, and then turned and wandered over to a weird, craggy piece of art on the wall. He didn’t rush, nor did he glance behind him at the door. In recent months, he’d learned how not to look suspicious. Rushing and looking around were a sure sign of a guilty man. As he looked at the gunmetal sheet of hammer metal, he heard a footstep in the doorway.

‘Amusing yourself?’ Billy asked. Frank, who had been breathing slowly and carefully, tried not to jump at the sound of his voice. Billy flicked his eyes down Frank’s body to the telltale sign that he was a little hard in his pants. Sweatpants, Frank thought with an enjoyable spike of desire, gave everything away. He found that he enjoyed being caught out in this particular way.

‘You call this amusing?’ he heckled, jerking his thumb at the weird art. Playing, he leaned back against the windowsill. The windows had all been carefully and discreetly screened with heavy, plain paper, but he was pretty sure that they were on the dock side of the building complex. Should be able to see Lady Liberty from here. A memory skittered across his mind and he let it go, careful not to let it stick around.

‘You don’t like it?’ Billy was staring at his art piece. He looked at Frank and then back at the vast, dark hanging.

‘I don’t _get_ it,’ Frank shrugged.

‘What’s not to get?’

‘Did you bring me here to admire your etchings,’ Frank said, trying to get the train back on its tracks, ‘or are you gonna fuck me?’ Even as he said it out loud, a rush of heat hit him. What had Billy done to him, he wondered, that he said that kind of shit. But if was stupid and it worked, it wasn’t stupid, and it had an effect on Billy that Frank liked.

Immediately Billy dropped all interest in his art work and came towards him across the floor, smirking. Stalking.

That was the only word for it. Billy liked when Frank was a little uncomfortable, and right now, perilously close to being caught in the act, Frank knew he was visibly caught off guard. He let Billy try to corner him, edging slowly along the windowsill as Billy made it around the coffee table, inexplicably placed with a sofa in his bedroom. If you had the square footage, Frank guessed you could be as weird as you wanted with your interior decorating. Had he hauled his furniture up here himself? It would have been like him. Billy made a swipe for Frank, grabbing his arm.

‘Look at you,’ Billy told him. ‘You’re a mess.’

‘What’s _that_ ‘sposed to mean,’ Frank asked, distracted by the way Billy’s mouth was moving. He could see the little sharp points of Billy’s eye teeth, overlapping a little with the teeth next door.

‘You’re wearing sweatpants.’

‘It’s a weekend,’ Frank said. ‘Also, quit looking at my dick.’

‘ _Now_ he’s shy,’ Billy said, crowding Frank so that the back of his calves hit the bed frame—because while Billy had been heckling, he had also been nudging Frank backwards towards the bed step by step. Aware of it, Frank had let it happen, enjoying the minute bump in his heart rate when his legs touched the bed.

Billy shoved him down with vicious glee, getting a knee down on the mattress right in between Frank’s thighs. Something about the vulnerability of being spread out like that made Frank twitch his legs a little. All the same, he let Billy grab the meat of his inner thigh, lean on his chest, pin him down. Underneath the regular excitement that he got whenever anyone wanted to fuck him, and the particular resonant tremor that was being in close proximity to Billy Russo, Frank felt a desperate desire to know what Billy was wearing under his dress pants. He had never been in Billy’s home before, nor had he seen Billy in anything but absurd boxer briefs. In a sort of fevered logic, Frank figured that the one might precede the other.

That was why as soon as Billy was sufficiently on top of him, he popped the button on Billy’s dress pants and jammed both his hands down the back of them, squeezing Billy’s ass. He peeped over Billy’s shoulder, down the long line of his back. Nada. Disappointment could come later. Right now Billy was making his presence felt with his teeth and tongue and hands, and Frank’s last remaining brain cell decided to take the rest of the night off.

 _Lacy fuckin’ underwear,_ he thought to himself, while Billy mauled him pleasurably. Billy always had known how to treat Frank right. Frank hadn’t forgotten, despite everything that had happened between them.

* * *

So they were back to this, like they’d never left. A slow and delightful realisation made Frank’s tired heart thud back to life in his chest; he could still have fun. He could, in fact, still revel in exactly the kind of stupid fun that he and Billy had thought they’d invented almost twenty years ago.

A chilly evening tonight, heavy with fog; Billy’s taunting text to come over. With a slightly shameful attempt at rationalisation Frank had told himself that there was no use staking out the old warehouse on 9th when he couldn’t see shit. Billy had told him to wear something that covered his face, and had met him at the side entrance of Anvil. He himself had taken off his suit jacket and had his sleeves rolled up; the after-hours look. Frank was into it. Billy, eternally with a sense of the dramatic, sneaked him upstairs in the freight elevator. Hell, Frank was into that, too.

‘In the office?’ Frank said, looking around. Just to give Billy the opportunity to tell him—

‘It’s my office. I can do whatever I want.’

‘Yeah, you can,’ Frank told him, coming over and getting hold of him by the chin, bringing him down to kissing height. ‘They can put that on your headstone.’ He ended up saying it against Billy’s mouth.

‘Shut up,’ Billy told him, without any heat. He leaned back and pressed a remote control on his desk. Like magic, the glass panels of his office fogged, and Frank audibly heard the door lock.

‘You do this so you can fuck in the office?’

‘Sometimes I have business meetings,’ said Billy blandly.

‘Who’s gonna see us anyway, this time of night?’

‘Cleaners?’ said Billy carelessly. ‘Who knows? But I didn’t sneak you in here and delete the security footage just to have some asshole working lates call the cops on you.’

‘You never disappoint, Bill.’

The long sweep of desk was the perfect height for Billy to sit on, toes touching the floor, while Frank slid down to his knees to blow him. Frank had always liked doing it, but especially right now he knew Billy would be into it. Acting like the boss in his fancy office. He unzipped Billy’s pants, half-hopeful. _Boxer briefs again_ , Frank thought, getting down to business. He slid his fist loosely up and down Billy’s cock, rubbed his open mouth over the head. Imagining what the hard line of Billy’s dick would look like in something lacy or silky had Frank so hard that it was difficult to concentrate. Distracted, he let Billy grab the back of his neck and go deep, until he choked.

‘God damn, Frankie,’ said Billy, voice low. Frank was all twisted up inside with want. Old habits dying hard, he knew exactly how Billy liked things and Billy, for his part, knew exactly how hard he could go with Frank.

The slide of Billy’s cock over Frank’s tongue was easy and familiar. Once Billy eased up on the back of his neck, Frank could blow him in a way that felt almost leisurely. He got a rhythm going, used his hand to help Billy along. On his knees, the angle was just right. He could concentrate on using his tongue up the length of Billy’s cock, concentrate on the taste and the quick, flickering beat of Billy’s pulse.

The heavy ache in Frank’s own dick was almost an afterthought. Above him, Billy choked out his name and shifted his weight so he could go deeper. Frank let him. He let Billy do pretty much anything. In return he jerked Billy harder and opened his mouth wide so Billy could watch himself come on Frank’s tongue.

Immediately after Billy came, he dragged Frank up by the shirt and shoved him against the desk. Frank complied, mouth full of the taste of Billy and his dick almost painfully constricted in his jeans. With a sweaty hand, Billy grabbed Frank’s cock and jerked him off, pressing him back against the long sweep of desk. Saying things in Frank’s ear that Frank would later recall and probably jerk _himself_ off to. Not enough to take Frank to pieces now; Billy had to make sure Frank had plenty to think about later, too.

‘Jesus,’ Frank said finally, weakly, coming in Billy’s hand and on his own shirt. He rested his forehead on Billy’s shoulder. Both of them breathing hard, hands idly wandering over each other. Sometimes Frank thought the best thing about all this was the aftermath, when Billy took his intensity down a notch and they just existed together. Billy rubbed his cheek casually against Frank’s head, hung an arm over the back of Frank’s shoulders.

Frank might’ve said _can we just hang out like this for a while_ , but there was no way of getting the words out of his mouth. Besides, if he said that, he wasn’t sure what else might come out with it.

* * *

Every inch of Frank hurt. A pair of Russians had come close to getting the jump on him, and while Frank was glad they hadn’t had anything but baseball bats, he was so stiff it ached to walk. If his dingy SRO had had a bath, or consistent hot water, Frank would have tried to soak the stiffness away. He had instead promised himself grimly that he could have a slug of bourbon if he got his ass over to the washbasin, and had given himself a lacklustre sponge bath, wincing and shuffling on the towel he’d put down on the floor. So here he was, getting by on painkillers and grit.

And Billy, surprisingly. Frank was going to go over to his place. He really was. But something came up, and it was all he could do to drag himself back home.

 _i’m beat_ , Frank had texted him after he was in clean clothes, amusing himself with the double meaning.

 _And here I had a surprise for you_ , Billy replied immediately. Frank wondered how the hell he ran a company when all he seemed to do was flirt with Frank by text.

_what kind of surprise_

_No_ , Billy replied cryptically. Frank left his phone alone for a while, lying down on his firm mattress and trying to massage out the pain in his neck. Some time later, he saw that Billy had responded. _What’s your address?_ And then, two minutes after that, _Can’t a man get a booty call around here?_

That had made Frank laugh.

 _if you come here_ , he typed carefully with his index finger, _you’re the booty call_. And then, because Billy could be weird and mercurial, he followed up with his address anyway.

‘You look like shit,’ Billy said not half an hour later, breezing into Frank’s tiny box of a living space. He sighed as he unbuckled his wrist blade and dropped it on Frank’s table. Then he braceleted his wrist with the other hand, rubbing out the red marks. Billy had carried the damn thing since he’d first realised they existed. Frank would admit that it was a useful piece of kit, although something about it just didn’t seem fair. Back in the day, he’d seen Billy in action with it and tried to picture himself doing the same.

‘You really know how to treat a guy.’ Frank hobbled back to bed and eased himself down onto the mattress. Billy was already taking off his tie with a deft twist of his hand. Sluggishly, the memory of Billy’s underwear drawer resurfaced in Frank’s mind. Something about the smooth whisper of a silk tie through Billy’s hand brought it back. Frank swallowed. _I had a surprise for you._ He reached for Billy and pulled him down into the crumpled mess of the bed. ‘Where’s the surprise?’ he asked, as Billy tried to kick his shoes off.

‘The surprise is that I came to your little trap house,’ Billy said. ‘You live like this?’

‘It’s fine,’ said Frank, burrowing two fingers between Billy’s shirt buttons. He pressed his mouth against Billy’s neck. ‘You’re just a fucking princess.’

‘Nothing wrong with good taste,’ said Billy with an awkward shrug. Awkward because he was lying half on top of Frank, one arm trapped underneath him.

‘Nah, what you’ve got there is _expensive_ taste,’ Frank corrected.

‘You don’t know shit about either, anyway,’ retorted Billy, and swung his leg over Frank. There was some messy kissing for a while, Billy desperately pushy and Frank riding it out even though his neck hurt. He pushed up against Billy’s half-hard dick, fumbled his fingers through Billy’s clothes and against his skin. As usual, Billy smelled like a dozen products and potions, and of breath mints and tea tree chapstick and the crisp cling of the cold outside. Frank closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose and mouth. Billy was touching him in a way that didn’t hurt, and he didn’t have anywhere to be tonight. Billy’s hands slid up his chest under his t-shirt. The feeling of rough fingertips over his nipples made Frank half-laugh, half-groan.

‘Fuck,’ said Billy, shoving Frank’s shirt up under his chin. He looked down at Frank, chewing this inside of his mouth. A look of devilish inspiration came across his face. ‘What if I fucked your tits?’

‘I don’t have—’ Frank began, and Billy laughed at him.

‘Yes, you do,’ he said, grabbing Frank’s chest with both hands. Heat crawled up Frank’s neck and face. A memory came oozing back into his mind. Billy, with a contraband cell phone, showing Frank and two of the guys a porno of a woman holding her tits together for some guy to fuck. Billy had been laughing like a drain, Frank eighty percent mortified. At some point after that, he had wondered how you would ask a woman to do that. And now here he was, lying in his own bed with Billy already unzipping his dress pants, balancing with one hand on Frank’s sternum.

‘You’re a pervert, Bill,’ Frank said, and Billy laughed even harder. He kicked his pants off the edge of the bed. Frank ran two fingers around the waistband of his underwear and then snapped it against Billy’s skin, for fun and to make him yell.

The fun was spoiled when Billy stripped them off, and his shirt and undershirt; all of it in one crumpled pile of Frank’s floor. Except, Frank thought deliriously, it wasn’t spoiled at all, because Billy leaned down and a licked a wide, wet stripe over Frank’s left nipple, and then across the right. Frank groaned, partly out of pleasure and partly because arching his back was an exercise in pain. Yet already he was so hard that the pressure of Billy’s inner thigh against his cock was dangerous. Frank hadn’t come in his pants since tenth grade and he wasn’t about to resume the habit now. He gritted his teeth.

‘Where’s your lube?’ asked Billy. With a grunt, Frank fished under his pillow. Billy snatched it, snapping his teeth at Frank’s hand when Frank tried to help him get the little lid off.

It was cold and it trickled ticklishly down Frank’s rib cage. With eager hands, Billy rubbed it in. He was enjoying himself way too much.

‘C’mon,’ Billy said, ‘don’t be fucking lazy.’

Flushing afresh, Frank brought his hands up to his chest, pushing his t-shirt up yet further. Billy was all the way naked but somehow Frank felt the more exposed.

‘Can’t believe you’re making me do this,’ Frank muttered.

‘I’ll blow you after,’ said Billy, always agreeable when he was getting his own way. He knew Frank would endure a multitude of perversions for the reward of Billy going down on him. Frank folded, compelled by the thought of Billy’s mouth. He pushed his pecs together. ‘Shit,’ said Billy, fumbling his dick into his hand and leaning over to press it against Frank’s sternum. Stretching out, he splayed his other hand out on the wall to brace himself.

It wasn’t like getting fucked the regular way. It wasn’t as though Frank could really feel a whole lot except the slide of Billy against his chest. Except Billy was over him, open-mouthed and staring; watching his cock, watching Frank’s hands. A fine mixture of shame and arousal was washing through Frank’s veins. He watched Billy watching him. Billy looked up, caught his gaze and grinned suddenly in a flash of delight. Very deliberately, Frank shifted his hands and ran his fingertips over his nipples. They were slick with lube and he wasn’t prepared for how it would feel.

His hips came up of their own volition, so he could rub himself against Billy’s bare ass.

‘Patience is a virtue,’ Billy told him, getting the words out with some difficulty. Frank groaned, thinking about how dearly he wanted to get his hands on Billy.

Looking at him was almost as good. He liked when Billy was red-faced and open-mouthed. His eyes were half-closed and the short, controlled rhythm of his thrusts was as good as getting fucked, Frank thought. He was just barely able to feel the tortuous brush of his dick against Billy’s skin, but the friction was nowhere near enough. He’d beg for it, but he knew from experience that Billy would just laugh, and say no.

When Billy came, it trickled down over Frank’s collarbones into the hollow of his neck. With a satisfied sigh, Billy collapsed against the wall on his forearm, his chest heaving. There was nothing like knowing you’d done a good job; still, Frank couldn’t reach his dick and it ached, and Billy had offered to—

‘Give me a minute,’ Billy said, eyes closed, and then he came back to life and slid down Frank’s single bed. He dragged Frank’s sweatpants with him. Frank rested his pillow over his face so he didn’t have think about Billy’s eyes on him again, and switched his brain off. Billy’s motormouth was wet and warm and he didn’t bother teasing.

Frank came with an embarrassing noise, which he muffled in the pillow. He didn’t trust himself to say anything. Billy lay down next to him, jamming an elbow in his ribs to make him shuffle over. They lay pressed together, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip.

* * *

It couldn’t continue like this. Frank was dying; bleeding from a hundred tiny wounds. Every time he thought about Billy and his apparently-unused underwear drawer, he bled a little more. The pricking of his conscience was making it harder and harder to look Billy in the eye. He knew, and he had to come clean. It was the only way. Maybe there was an explanation that was reasonable, that would solve everything.

‘Hey,’ he said too loudly, as soon as Billy picked up the phone. ‘Let’s grab a burger.’

‘Are you wining and dining me?’

‘Yeah,’ said Frank, ‘it’s just the kind of guy I am. Cody’s, on 17th?’

‘Sure,’ said Billy, sounding amused. ‘I can sneak out. There in forty.’

Frank got there early, horribly early, and sat chugging coffee as fast as the waitress would pour it.

‘First date, honey?’ she said sympathetically, although to Frank’s intense relief she didn’t wait for an answer. Billy swanned in five minutes later, inexplicably having beaten Manhattan traffic, and flung himself into the booth.

‘This is quaint,’ he said, looking around at the red leather and the waitresses’ pink dresses. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘No reason,’ said Frank. The waitress came back around and bestowed coffee and a smile upon Billy.

‘What’ll you boys have?’

‘Uh, I’ll have the burger. Thanks.’

‘Two eggs, over easy, wholewheat toast, bacon, and a side of fruit.’ Billy snapped his menu closed and slung an arm along the back of the bench seat. For a few minutes, they watched the world go by. A middle-aged businessman carrying flowers. Two kids with skateboards. A beautiful woman in sweatpants, talking on the phone and laughing. It was rare for Frank to have real downtime with someone watching his back. He was always watching Billy’s too; that was implied. The very existence of a second pair of eyes made it possible for Frank to enjoy himself.

Better yet, a quiet street, a quiet diner, nowhere to be.

The waitress came back with their plates, and with the zeal of military men, Frank and Billy went to work. Billy’s table manners were better than Frank’s, but he ate no less quickly for all his graces. Halfway through his burger, Frank remembered what he was here for.

‘So listen,’ he said through a mouthful of fries. ‘I gotta talk to you about something.’

‘What,’ said Billy, licking his fork with a little pink dart of his tongue. ‘You wear women’s underwear or something?’

Frank coughed and then reswallowed his mouthful of fries. ‘Uh, what?’ he asked. He became aware that he was guiltily hunched over his plate, with his burger suspended halfway to his mouth in his left hand.

‘Nothing to be ashamed about, Frankie,’ Billy continued, with the magnanimity of a worldly uncle talking to his favourite nephew.

‘Fuck you,’ muttered Frank around his mouthful. Billy cackled. His eyes were creased with laughter and he had a smudge of ketchup on his lower lip. He licked it clean. When Billy was happy and getting his own way—in Frank’s experience, the two usually went together—he had a sort of magnetism about him. He was radiant with delight right now, here in Frank’s diner, eating the kind of salty, fatty garbage that they had talked endlessly about when they were bereft of it in Afghanistan.

In fact, Billy was enjoying himself a little too much. Frank narrowed his eyes, watching Billy watching him.

‘Got something to say?’ Billy asked, in a tone of voice that said he knew that Frank did. That was the problem, Frank thought; even after separation, Billy just knew him too goddamn well.

‘Christ,’ said Frank. He carefully set his burger down on his plate and wiped his hand on a paper towel. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

‘What am I doing?’ Billy asked. He made his eyes wide and tilted his head, flirting ridiculously.

‘Punishing me,’ said Frank. He slurped his coffee, purely because he knew it annoyed Billy. For a wonder, Billy held off commenting. He was eating his eggs in neat squares, watching Frank all the while. Somehow he managed not to dribble egg yolk down his front. The silence grew long. Frank picked at his fries, finished his coffee, took the last two bites of his burger—cold now, and hard to swallow. He cleaned all around his plate and wiped his mouth. Eventually, he ran out of things to do, and Billy was still watching. Frank sighed, dragged one hand down his face. ‘Fine,’ he said very quietly, just in case anyone was listening in. ‘I looked, okay?’

‘Really?’ Billy said, his eyes very wide.

‘You knew,’ Frank groaned, and Billy snickered, a mean noise. He looked insufferably smug. Always had to be right. Always loved to have the upper hand. Could’ve gone into politics, probably. Still might.

‘Shit, Frankie,’ said Billy, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his hair, ‘you always were a bad liar.’

‘Drawer was open, anyway,’ Frank said. That was the kind of half-truth his dad would have cuffed him for. ‘It was half-open,’ he amended.

‘Always were nosy, too.’

‘Shouldn’t have looked,’ Frank said.

‘I don’t give a shit,’ said Billy. ‘If it was private it’d be in the safe. How dumb do you think I am?’ Frank shrugged. ‘You don’t get to where I am by leaving your shit lying around, anyway.’

‘Did you want me to see?’ Frank asked then, very low. The noise of the diner suddenly came to the fore, and he became aware that he could hear fragments of other people’s conversations.

‘Like I said, I don’t give a shit.’ Then Billy smiled, in the way he had that showed his canine teeth. Frank adjusted himself under the table.

‘We’re just leaving it there, huh?’ Frank said, desperate not to leave it there.

‘That’s up to you.’

‘What’s up to me? From where I’m sitting you’re just teasing.’ Frank fished his wallet from his back pocket and thumbed out a twenty, tucking it under the edge of his plate. Quicker than his next breath, Billy whipped out a hand and grabbed Frank’s wrist. He leaned in close.

‘From where I’m sitting, you got it pretty sweet, Frank,’ said Billy, low so it wouldn’t carry to the other tables. ‘I show you a good time.’

‘What’s your point?’ Frank’s pulse was beating against Billy’s thumb.

‘One little thing you wanted, and you didn’t have the balls to ask for it,’ said Billy. It stung because it was true.

‘I’m no good at that dirty talk, Bill,’ said Frank, embarrassed.

Billy let him go and flowed to his feet. He had a habit of standing with his chin up, so even though he was taller than most other people he could emphasise looking down on you. The arrogance was attractive to Frank. Except now it felt like Billy was judging him; hell, Frank was judging himself.

‘All you gotta do is ask, Frankie,’ Billy said, and he stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘See you later.’

With that, Billy strolled towards the exit. Frank had to restrain himself from jumping up and dashing after him. The waitress came back around, refilled his coffee mug without having to be asked.

‘Happens that way sometimes, honey,’ she told him, and then launched into a story about her ex-husband. Frank nodded and made noises of agreement, but he wasn’t listening. The wheels of his brain were turning. He wished that this was a military engagement so that he could diagram it out in his head and figure out the next step. It would all be easier if he could strategise.

But human relationships were messy; he remembered that now. Being around Billy was usually so easy that he had forgotten the tense, brittle quality of his marriage at times. The careful steps around a problem that couldn’t quite be addressed head on. Or quiet resentment (his, hers) that went unvoiced for want of patience, for want of understanding.

Abandoning his coffee on the table, he stood and flipped his hood up. It was a reflex now. With his hands in his pockets and his head down, he slouched out onto the street and automatically headed for home. The little part of his brain that calculated threat kept ticking over in the background as he tried to solve the puzzle that was Billy.

_Side door, Anvil, two hours. Wear a hat._

_I had a surprise for you._

_That’s up to you._

_All you gotta do is ask._

They had been having fun. At least, Frank thought they’d been having fun. He chewed the problem over. Somewhere along the road home, Maria’s voice trickled into his ear.

_Well, I don’t want to have to ask you. I want you to take care of it. Honest to God, Frank, it’s like having three kids sometimes._

Frank stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

‘Goddamn,’ he said. Frank had never figured himself for a slow learner, but he sure was being a dumbass. He took the stairs to his apartment two at a time, his phone already half out his pocket by the time he opened the door. He bolted the door, gave his living space a peremptory check, then called Billy.

‘Ready to talk?’ Billy asked him. There was an edge of tension in his voice.

‘I’m an ass,’ Frank said. ‘Letting you do all the work.’

Billy snorted a laugh.

‘So?’

‘You remember that place by the bridge?’ The name was escaping Frank, but surely Billy remembered the patch of empty land with the strangely beautiful view, where Billy’s radio call had eventually brought them back together. When Frank thought about it (the leap of faith, the rendezvous, the sight of Billy) his throat wanted to close up. He wanted to build a fence around that unassuming patch of overgrown gravel so that nobody else could ever go there but him and Billy. ‘Meet me there.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Billy. Frank swallowed, turning his face away from the phone so Billy couldn’t hear how worked up this got him.

‘Yeah,’ said Frank. ‘Wear something nice.’

Later, parked out in the abandoned lot overlooking the bay, Frank gracelessly climbed into the back seat of Billy’s car.

‘Thanks,’ he said, closing the door so that the sounds of the water and the wind abruptly disappeared. Billy, lounging with his feet up on the centre console, waved his hand.

‘Knew you just needed some time to get your head straight,’ he said, graciously. He had changed his clothes; tighter jeans, a t-shirt. The same leather jacket.

‘You look good,’ Frank told him, his mouth already dry.

‘Of course,’ Billy told him. The car was very quiet and smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood. Slightly intimidated by the luxury, Frank filled the silence.

‘Jesus, just take your clothes off,’ he said, reaching for Billy and shoving his jacket down off his shoulders. Billy laughed, pulled off his t-shirt and tugged Frank down on top of him. They made out in the back seat for a while, cramped and awkward. In the back of Frank’s mind was the urgent, eager need to get Billy’s pants off and see—and see _if_. He broke away. ‘Let me look.’

Billy popped the button on his jeans with one hand, looking up at Frank with his usual perverted delight. A narrow V of black denim; Frank watched as Billy peeled the fly down.

‘Tease,’ he said. ‘Just take ‘em off already.’

‘Can’t appreciate artistry, can you?’

‘I’m a heathen,’ agreed Frank, fingers itching to touch Billy’s skin.

Under the casually-stylish street clothes, Billy was wearing something like shorts, black and lacy, with a wide lace band at the top. It pressed against the smooth expanse of his lower abs. Even though Billy was a known and perhaps excessive manscaper these days, he had left the trail of fine hair up his belly. The sight of it made Frank’s mouth water.

‘Oh my God,’ said Frank thickly. The blood was rushing from what was left of his brain down to his dick. ‘Get on top of me.’ It slipped out of his mouth. He was all ready to take it back, but Billy was already moving. Crouching to avoid the roof of the car, he got himself into Frank’s lap. With hands numb from excitement, Frank fumbled Billy’s jeans all the way open and shoved them down just enough to get his dick out. Billy was craned around and fishing in the centre compartment.

‘You keep lube in your car?’ Frank asked.

‘Proper planning prevents poor performance, Frankie, you know this.’

Frank couldn’t really argue with that, and he was benefitting from Billy’s boy scout skills. So he shut his mouth, and ran his fingertips along the lace waistband of Billy’s underwear. They barely covered his dick. It was almost a shame to push them down, except Billy’s cock sprang free, already half-hard and red against his pale belly, and that looked even better.

In the many, many years since high school, Frank had managed to cope with the unexpected sight of _the good lingerie_ on women. So sue him: he liked the lacy stuff. But the ruinous sight of Billy, lean and muscular and masculine, wearing something that could have come out of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue—that was a weapon against which he had no defenses.

He said as much to Billy.

‘You think this is Victoria’s Secret?’ Billy said.

‘I dunno,’ Frank told him absently, lifting his hips so he was no longer sitting on his belt buckle. He took himself in hand and stroked a few times.

‘I have standards,’ Billy said.

‘Right,’ Frank replied, not listening.

‘Are you even listening?’

‘No,’ Frank said, and then, still half-distracted, ‘can I fuck you?’

Billy considered it for a moment. ‘Sure,’ he said. He took Frank by the wrist and abruptly sucked Frank’s fingers into his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ Frank said, ‘okay. Okay. Where did you put the lube?’ He looked around; it was on the seat. When he reached for it he realised that he was already sweating down his back, that he was somehow over excited like a kid about to get blown on prom night. Billy ran his tongue over the pads of Frank’s fingers and then bit at them. ‘Patience is a virtue,’ Frank told him, suddenly smug. He shifted Billy on his lap, bracing his booted foot against the pristine driver’s side seat, and somehow got his free hand wet with lube.

Frank had never fucked Billy before, not really, and so his only experience was taking it. It always took them an age to get him ready and they were both too impatient. Instead they existed on a diet of blowjobs and jerking off, which was more than okay with Frank anyway. When he got his fingers down the back of Billy’s underwear, Billy swallowed a small sound. It was surprisingly easy to slide his index finger into Billy. _What do you know,_ Frank thought to himself, and kept going.

It was logistically impossible to fuck Billy with the panties all the way on, however much Frank wanted it. He tugged them down over the swell of Billy’s ass, and found he could press the head of his cock right where it needed to be.

‘Come on,’ Billy said. ‘Don’t bitch out on me now.’ His teeth gleamed white in the dark through his beard.

‘Shoulda left you in the desert,’ Frank retorted, and he grabbed Billy’s hips and pulled, and tensed up; they made a sound in unison, and then Frank’s cock pushed through the resistance. ‘Fuck,’ he said, helplessly. Billy hissed out a long breath and slid down very slowly. Suddenly the air in the car was incredibly close and Frank struggled to suck in a breath of his own. He shoved his face into Billy’s neck so that Billy couldn’t see how stupid he probably looked right now.

Billy ran his fingers up the back of Frank’s neck and over the swell of his skull, digging them in. Made Frank look at him. He swooped in to kiss Frank, his tongue eager and his blunt fingernails dragging against Frank’s scalp. Eyes closed and mouth blindly open, Frank let himself disappear into the slow, hot friction of—of everything, tongue and nails and ass and hands and the good rough scratch of Billy’s stubble. He was in a real good rhythm. The prickle of sweat on the back of his neck, and the cramped space, and his sore rotator cuff, all faded away into background noise.

‘You can go harder,’ Billy slurred against his cheek, and he braced one hand on the back window and the other on the back of the seat next to them.

Frank complied. The first aching tightness of Billy’s body, to be carefully navigated, had melted into a delicious easy slide. He buried himself to the hilt and groaned. Billy echoed it. Frank thought about doing this from behind, where he could see Billy opened up, wet. Stockings. Or just these goddamn lace shorts, pushed down around his spread thighs.

‘Why would you hide these?’ Frank asked in between breaths, snapping the elastic against Billy’s skin.

‘To screw with you,’ Billy said, fucked into total honesty.

The telltale flush was starting to come up Billy’s neck. With his palms against the back window, his cock was untouched. Frank spat into his hand and took care of it, jerking him off the same way he did it to himself, the same way Billy liked. No nonsense. The black satin panels on the front of Billy’s little shorts brushed against the heel of Frank’s hand over and over. The pink curve of Billy’s lower lip fell open and he was making short, sharp noises, in perfect time with Frank fucking him.

Then his voice stuttered, and he said Frank’s name, and came in Frank’s hand as if he hadn’t in weeks. It ran down Frank’s wrist, over Billy’s panties. The sight of it made Frank’s balls ache. He stared, taking it in and still fucking Billy with rigorous timing, even though already Billy was starting to grit his teeth. In the end, it was thought of Billy driving home with Frank’s come ruining his lingerie that did it for Frank. He came on the upstroke, all the way in, grinding it out against Billy’s ass.

They came down, Billy’s weight on Frank’s chest. The heat from the car dissipated rapidly, the cold night seeping in. With curses and elbows thrown, they got dressed, and Billy made a surprisingly graceful retreat into the driver’s seat. He turned round and looked at Frank, bright with satisfaction and mischief.

‘Look what you can achieve when you’re not a repressed ass,’ he said.

Frank grinned. For a minute Billy looked twenty-two and hungry for a fight again. ‘Hey,’ he said, as if the thought hadn’t occupied his every waking hour for week. ‘You should wear a bra next time.’

‘Maybe I will,’ Billy said. He started the car. ‘I’m not your Uber driver, dude.’

Frank snorted, and opened the door. It was a bad idea for Billy’s car to be seen dropping off suspicious men with their hoods up in shitty neighbourhoods. Hell, it was a bad idea for them to keep meeting like this. If they got caught, Billy was almost as fucked as Frank. But Frank had never been one for good decisions.

‘Call me,’ he said, stepping out into the darkness.

‘Keep your head down,’ Billy told him, which was very nearly like telling Frank he cared.

Frank waited until he couldn’t see Billy’s car any more before he started walking the other way.


End file.
